


Prayanam

by AislingKaye



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, I don't like Arwen, M/M, Or Galadriel, Ron needs more love, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AislingKaye/pseuds/AislingKaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron has faced betrayal from the most important people in his life. After entering the Veil, he finds himself in a strange world with someone he thought long dead.<br/>The Valar have their ways and reasoning, and the two wizards are about to find out what they have planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Droham (Betrayal)

Ron had never felt so cold. Sure, he’d felt physical cold, but never had he been the recipient of such icy glares and cool regard by someone he cared about.

Currently, he was the unlucky recipient of such an expression from his boyfriend, his sister and the woman he considered his best friend and pseudo-sister. Slowly, his heart was breaking under their harsh words and glacial sneers.

“…I guess you never cared for me, then,” Ron said quietly, allowing his head to drop and his gaze to move to his feet. He no longer tried to keep the tears from falling, instead letting the saltwater slide down his cheeks.

“Of course not,” Harry snorted. “You’re a pathetic little coward.”

Before now, before this moment, Ron would have raged and attacked anyone who dared call him that. Now, he just let the tears roll faster.

“I can’t believe we’re related,” Ginny scoffed, and Ron flinched slightly. Hermione’s sharp eyes didn’t miss it, and Ron could hear the glee in her voice as she used her intelligence to break him down further.

“Should have been drowned at birth, or just forgotten completely. You’re nothing, you’re worthless, and I can’t believe we let you think we were your friends for this long.”

“Enough,” Harry ordered, and Ron’s hopes lifted slightly. “Time to get rid of him for good.” Ron’s hope fled entirely, replaced with a rage as dangerous and cowing as his mother’s. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his head, and glared with damp electric-blue eyes at the people he would have died for.

“No need,” he snarled, his mother’s warrior fey blood showing true for the first time. “I’ll take myself away.” He pushed himself up onto his feet, disregarding the many gashes on his leanly muscled body which bled freely at the movement, and felt a sense of bitter satisfaction as the trio before him took a step back. He turned his back on them, and strode through the Veil as confidently as possible.

He blacked out upon hitting the silvery, ghostly material, and never looked back at the ones who had betrayed him and broken his heart so thoroughly.


	2. Melukolupu (Awakening)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron wakes up... clearly.

Ron groaned as he woke, shifting slightly to ease off putting weight on one of his worse injuries. Then he froze, opening his eyes and frowning up at what looked like a tent ceiling.

He hadn’t expected to awaken at all. Not since he just up and walked through the Veil of Death. It was called that for a reason, after all.

“Hey kid, looks like you’re finally awake,” a familiar but long-silenced voice stated cheerily from around the general area of his feet. Ron looked towards said voice, and was only vaguely surprised to see one Sirius Black smiling at him from the open tent flap.

“Sirius?”

“Yep! You were pretty cut up when you appeared in front of me – what the hell happened to you?” Ron scowled, any and all shock at Sirius’ presence being pushed aside in his anger and hurt.

“Hermione, Ginny and your godson,” he snarled, and Sirius frowned. He moved closer to Ron and sat down on the ground beside the bedding in which the redhead lay.

“I think you’d better tell me everything that’s happened since I fell through that damned curtain.”

 

When Ron was done with his tale, Sirius had surged up from his place and started pacing the tent, cursing in what sounded like five or six languages. Ron was quite impressed – he could only swear in English and Arabic, the latter thanks to Bill. The last few epithets the man went through, as he was winding down, didn’t sound like any language Ron had ever heard of.

“Um, Sirius?”

“Call me Ciarán. I’ve been going by it ever since I got here,” the man waved a hand almost dismissively, still pacing. “It fits in with the types of names people have here.”

“What do you mean?”

“…right, you wouldn’t know. We’re not on Earth anymore.” Sirius – Ciarán – stopped pacing and sat back down beside Ron to explain. “Be prepared to have some people visit your dreams. They’re the gods of this world, the Valar. This world has quite a few different races – men, elves, dwarves, goblins, orcs, hobbits, and Istari to name a few.”

“Hold up,” Ron interrupted. “Apart from orcs, hobbits and Istari, I can’t think of anything I haven’t seen before.”

“These elves, dwarves and goblins aren’t what you think. You’ll see if the Valar visit your dreams. If not, I’ll explain.”

“Right. So, hobbits, orcs and Istari?”

“Later. But Istari are created by the Valar and sent here to watch over Middle Earth – this world. They’re called Wizards by the common folk. We aren’t Istari. I can’t use magic the way I used to, wand or not.”

“What?” Ron asked weakly. Ciarán gave him a sympathetic look.

“It’ll be explained. I still have magic, I just can’t use it the same way. I’m basically a shapeshifter now, with the added ability of manipulating and creating fire and light.”

“So I…?”

“You’ll probably be able to do something similar. You’ll find out soon,” Ciarán promised. “I’ll tell you more over breakfast. Come on.”

 

Over breakfast, Ron learned more about the world he had entered. His name, Ciarán said, was too different from those of the types of people they would encounter, and so Ron challenged him to find a name to suit him. Ciarán just laughed and said that he couldn’t do that until he found out what type of abilities Ron’s magic had morphed into.

Ron had huffed at that, but let it go.

They had travelling to do before nightfall.

 

The next day found Ron waking up from the best sleep he’d had in months, despite the strange true-dreams he’d had. Beautiful beings had appeared to him, and had shown and told him nearly everything he needed to know about the world he was to consider home. His magic’s changes had been revealed to him also, and he woke with the knowledge that he was much better prepared to fight his way to his eventual happiness.

When he told Ciarán what his magic had become, the former animagus and now-shapeshifter had considered carefully for a good five minutes before he bestowed a new name on the redhead. Ron Weasley was no more.

Now he was Nuada, son of Ciarán, son of Orion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciarán is a celtic-origin name meaning 'dark, black'. Nuada means 'protector' and is of Irish/Celtic/Gaelic origins


	3. Sangatyamu (The Fellowship)

Nuada smirked at his adoptive father as he cleaned off the bright silver blade of the sword he wielded with ease. His birth mother’s warrior fey blood had been amplified upon his arrival in Middle Earth, and most forms of armed combat now came naturally to the tall redhead. The young man was now twenty-three years of age, and his red hair reached the lower edge of his shoulder blades when loose – he often kept it tied back with a strip of leather, though.

The sword he cleaned so carefully was a commission from a dwarven blacksmith Ciarán knew, and was of peculiar design and size. It was extremely long, longer than one of Nuada’s arms, and was of curious shape. The blade curved to a point at its tip, and could be wielded with one or two hands. Despite its size, Nuada’s curious magic made it light enough to move as quickly and powerfully as needed.

Ciarán was pouting childishly as Nuada finished wiping the orc blood off his weapon, his travel-worn clothing splattered with the disgusting fluid. Nuada had given him a bit of a fright, thrusting the large blade past Ciarán’s head, the blade so remarkably close that Ciarán had almost fainted. The sword had been aimed at a small orc sneaking up on Ciarán, and now the older former-wizard was pouting childishly and slumped cross-legged on the ground in a sulk at having to be rescued by Nuada.

“Stop your pouting, Ciarán,” Nuada rolled his eyes as he slung his sword across his back and stood up. “Just be glad you aren’t dead.”

“I could have got it,” Ciarán muttered rebelliously, and Nuada gave him a disbelieving look.

“You didn’t even realise it was there.”

“Yes I did!” Nuada rolled his eyes.

“You’re like a bloody three year old,” he sighed. Ciarán’s pout deepened, and Nuada cuffed him around the back of his head. “Get up, idiot Marauder. You stink of orc blood.”

“That’s your fault, though,” Ciarán complained, getting up anyway and giving the man he loved as a son an absolutely filthy look. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to wash in the river,” he sniffed in affront, and stalked off as Nuada started laughing.

 

Aragorn turned his head slightly to the east, frowning faintly at the sound of… laughter. Who would be laughing out here?

“Legolas, do you hear laughter?” the Man asked his Elven friend.

“I do, Aragorn. Human laughter from the east. It is coming closer,” the elf archer added.

A loud indignant cry then sounded, audible to the entire Fellowship. Weapons were grasped, defensive stances taken, and those who could wield a weapon turned to face the direction the cry had come from.

“What was that?” Pippin asked in a trembling little voice, but Aragorn did not reply. He was focused on the sound of someone or something crashing through the trees and scrub towards them. He adjusted his grip on the sword in his hands.

A shout was heard, this time with vaguely understandable speech instead of a wordless noise of annoyance.

“Get back here, you mangy mutt!” Behind Aragorn and Legolas, Gimli and Boromir exchanged confused glances.

Moments after the shout, a black shape crashed through the trees in front of Aragorn, darted past him, and hid behind Gimli with a whimper. Whoever or whatever the black shape was, it was very fast.

Before the Fellowship could do more than start and blink in surprise, a tall black-and-brown-clad man with a large sword on his back stumbled out of the same section of woodland. The man promptly tripped over a rock and fell flat on his face on the ground, allowing Legolas’ quickly-released arrow to fly harmlessly overhead.

Silence fell, with the exception of a pained groan from the sprawled-out man. A snort sounded from behind Gimli, followed by muffled laughter. The man on the ground lifted his head and glared at the black-haired head poking out from behind the dwarf, bright blue eyes promising revenge.

“I thought you’d grown out of your clumsy stage,” the black-haired man teased, and the one on the ground groaned and dropped his face back down.

“Don’t remind me,” he grouched, and then pushed himself up onto his knees and then to his feet, brushing himself down. He scowled down at the fresh dirt on his knees and chest, and dusted at the dirt ineffectually as he looked around. He only just seemed to notice the Fellowship staring between him and his companion – something that a clear warrior should not be so oblivious to. He decided to ignore them further – they hadn’t attacked so why would they if he didn’t first? – and turned a glare back on his black-haired companion.

 

Before he could speak, though, Gandalf did.

“May I enquire as to who you are, and what you are doing in our camp?” the elderly Istari asked mildly. The younger man, the one who had tripped, glanced at him and then around at the Fellowship again before looking back to the Istari. He shoved off his light hood, revealing handsome lightly-tanned features and long fire-red hair pulled back in a low tail at the base of his neck.

“I am Nuada, son of Ciarán. That idiot hiding behind the dwarf is Ciarán, son of Orion.”

“Hey!” the man behind Gimli, Ciarán if this ‘Nuada’ was to be believed, protested. “I am not hiding, I am making sure there’s a good solid shield between me and that damned blade of yours!” Nuada rolled his intense blue eyes.

“I wasn’t going to stab you, I was going to hit you over the head,” he explained in a nearly gentle tone, although he was clearly mocking the older man – his father?

“It would still hurt!”

“Oh, grow up.”

“Make me!” Both strangers turned to Gandalf when he gave a pointed cough.

“Sorry,” the redhead offered sheepishly. It struck the Fellowship suddenly that he was really quite young despite his height. “As I said, I am Nuada and this is my father Ciarán. As for what we are doing here, well, I was chasing Ciarán for throwing water over me.” Indeed, now they cared to look, the Fellowship noticed that the redheaded man was indeed rather damp. Ciarán snickered, and then ducked behind Gimli again with a yelp when his son glared at him and fingered the hilt of the large sword across his back. “Oh, and there was a pack of orcs about a half-mile north-east of here. We got rid of them, but there may be more,” Nuada added, as he stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

“An orc pack?” Boromir repeated disbelievingly.

“Well there was a good ten or twelve, so I assume so,” Nuada shrugged. The four hobbits looked at each other, and Merry mouthed silently ‘ten or twelve’, a flabbergasted expression on his face. His friends just shrugged back at him, as bewildered as he was. “I wouldn’t consider any less to be a ‘pack’ of the creatures.”

“Smelly, foul things,” Ciarán muttered, still hiding behind Gimli.

“You’re just sore I had to save your hide yet again,” Nuada retorted. Ciarán stuck his tongue out childishly.

“You have my thanks for warning us of the orcs,” Gandalf interrupted before the two could start bickering yet again. “Good travels to you.” He motioned to the Fellowship, and they dutifully started moving on.

 

Soon Ciarán and Nuada were left watching the nine assorted travellers walk away, and glanced at each other once it appeared they were out of earshot.

“So… look odd to you?”

“Not at all,” Nuada replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Should we follow, do you think?”

“The Valar did say if we ran into Gandalf the Grey we were to keep close,” Ciarán agreed with a shrug, brushing himself down automatically as he straightened and adjusted the light pack on his back. “So, shall we?”

“Indeed we shall.”

They started following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ron's sword, think of Nero's sword "Red Queen" from Devil May Cry.


	4. Gudhacarulu (Spies/Scouts)

Legolas was twitching. It intrigued the hobbits, worried Aragorn and Gandalf, and provided amusement for Gimli. Boromir hadn’t noticed, and even if he had he wouldn’t have been too concerned – he didn’t know the elf (or any elves) well enough to know that if an elf was twitching there was something wrong.

“Legolas,” Aragorn murmured in greeting and question as he approached the elf. They had stopped to camp, and Legolas was taking first watch as night fell.

“Someone is following us,” Legolas replied bluntly. Aragorn’s eyebrows shot up.

“Man, orc, Elf or other?” he asked quietly.

“Men. I think. I cannot be sure,” Legolas’ tone was frustrated.

“Familiar?”

“Vaguely.”

“Keep an eye out.”

“Of course.”

 

Nuada paused mid-step, frowning and turning his head to the west much as Aragorn had done two days previous, although admittedly in the opposite direction.

“What is it?” Ciarán asked, and Nuada shushed him before listening intently.

“We’ve been detected, but not identified,” the redhead murmured.

“How do you know?”

“We’re not that far away,” Nuada snorted. “The wind brought the elf’s voice to me.”

“You and that bloody wind,” Ciarán huffed. Nuada shot him a brief glare and then turned slightly more to the north-west as he started walking again. Ciarán sighed quietly – Nuada had been moody ever since they encountered the group of nine two days ago – and then followed his adoptive son.

 

It was only the following morning that Nuada and Ciarán approached the Fellowship again, although this time of their own choice rather than blind luck. The ring of metal on metal in rhythmic sequence alerted both men of the location of the mixed company, leading them straight through the scraggly brush and uneven rocky terrain to where the man with auburn hair was going through forms with one of the younger hobbits. The other hobbits were watching and – in the case of the elder two – eating, and the dark-haired man with blue-green eyes was watching as well, smoking a pipe. He also gave advice from time-to-time, such as a simple ‘move your feet’ to the youngest of the hobbits.

Ciarán crouched low behind a rock and peeked around it at the slightly-scattered group, while Nuada observed from behind a stunted tree. The two hobbits weren’t doing too badly, although they had a long way to go before they would be ready to use a blade in a true battle.

The dwarf’s voice could be heard in the near-silent air, although neither Ciarán nor Nuada could see him, the elf or Gandalf. They ignored the dwarf’s words and instead focused on the men and hobbits closer to them.

The man teaching the two young hobbits some simple forms switched to the elder of the two, and Ciarán had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing when the pair tricked the man into lowering his guard, only to be tackled and taken down by the two. The other watching hobbits, and the man smoking his pipe, laughed as the auburn-haired man was soundly defeated by a pair of innocent-looking hobbits.

Nuada was the one to realise they’d been spotted, and he sighed as he lifted his hands in a sign of surrender. Ciarán yelped quietly as a blade touched his throat lightly, and pouted as he lifted his own hands.

“Why are you following us?” the dark-haired man demanded as he approached. Nuada rose to his feet calmly and quietly, hands still held up and open.

“We were told to,” he admitted, “but not by any enemy of yours.”

“Shut up, Nuada,” Ciarán hissed, and shut his own mouth when the blade at his neck pressed a fraction harder in warning.

“You might not have been Dreaming lately, old man, but I have. We must tell them,” Nuada snapped. The blade at his throat shifted and he stilled completely.

“Tell us what?” the regal dark-haired one wanted an answer, that much was clear.

“Who sent us and why,” Nuada said quietly. “We mean you all no harm. We were told that if we were to find the Grey Wizard, we should join his companions on their quest.”

Ciarán stared at him for a moment.

“They didn’t tell me that much,” he pouted.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Nuada rolled his eyes. “Plus you’ve only been napping recently, and they couldn’t get through to you.”

“Who are ‘they’?” the elf holding his blade to Nuada’s throat demanded.

“The Valar, of course,” the redhead responded easily.

Silence fell.

 

“You lie,” the elf hissed finally.

“Why should I?” Nuada countered. “I would not say it if it was not the truth – I know it is difficult to believe.”

“What proof have you?” Gandalf demanded, and Nuada glanced sidelong at Ciarán, who sighed and rolled his eyes.

“You honestly need to learn to speak another language,” he informed his son, and then spoke in a language none but he and Gandalf understood. “Through Varda and Manwë you were created, Maia Olórin, and through Nienna you became wise and learned patience and pity. Of all your brethren you have travelled furthest on your set path, although you have a long way yet to go. Nienna did ask of me to tell you this: if you stay true to what you know is right, the darkness shall not triumph. Mairon will fall and be punished for his misdeeds upon his return to Aulë’s service.”

Gandalf examined the man once he had finished speaking, a thoughtful, contemplative expression on his lined features.

“Let them go,” he said finally, still eyeing the pair curiously even as Legolas and Gimli removed their blades from the necks of the duo. “Just who are you?”

“Travellers, fighters, helping hands,” Nuada shrugged. “With a few extra gifts. For example, Arien favours Ciarán with her fire and light.”

“And Manwë, Tulkas and Oromë favour Nuada,” Ciarán piped up cheerily, and then pouted when his son smacked him over the head lightly. “What? It’s true!”

“That does not mean you should say it so casually,” Nuada scowled.

 

Their banter was interrupted by a strange sound, and Nuada’s bright blue eyes snapped to the south along with those of the only elf in the party.

“What is it?” Gimli demanded. Legolas was the one to respond.

“Crebain, from Dunland!” he shouted.

“Hide! They are spies of Saruman!” Gandalf boomed. The fellowship hurried for cover, and Ciarán held out his hand to restart their quickly-snuffed fire. Nuada swiftly settled beside it as the last of the fellowship found cover, pretending it was his. Ciarán sat beside him and then shifted seamlessly into the form of a large black hunting dog, allowing Nuada to bury a hand in his fur. Gasps of shock came from the company at the dark-haired man’s transformation, but Nuada just started humming until the shrieking creatures drew close. He glanced up as if only just noticing them, one hand gripping the hilt of his blade as Ciarán leapt up and started snarling.

“Hush, Grim,” Nuada ordered, replacing his hand in the dog’s fur as the birds flew past. “They’re just birds.” ‘Grim’ grumbled and settled back down, and soon the crow-like birds were gone.

 

When the avian flock was completely out of sight Ciarán shifted back to his human form.

“They’re rather ugly beasts, don’t you think?” he asked lightly. Nuada snorted as the fellowship came out of hiding, and Ciarán snuffed the fire with a flick of his hand.

“How did you change into a dog? Are you a skinchanger?” one of the hobbits asked, and Ciarán shrugged.

“I suppose you could consider it that. I learned how to do it, though, I didn’t inherit the ability,” he explained.

“I was unaware such a thing was possible,” Gandalf stated, slightly wary.

“Ciarán is one of a kind,” Nuada responded dryly.

“Why do you always make that sound bad?” the dark-haired man in question whined, and received a flat look from his son. “Mean.”

“Get over it.”

“I presume you have been tasked to travel with us?” Gandalf interrupted before the duo could continue their banter.

“We have,” Nuada nodded to the elderly Istari. “If you have no objections.”

“Extra assistance will be most welcome on our current path.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up when it's written, no sooner and no later
> 
> Sorry about the brusque notes, but I'm kinda tired right now. Hope you enjoy this story so far though :)

**Author's Note:**

> Harry, Hermione and Ginny's betrayal is just a plot point - I don't care about the mechanics behind it or their reasoning, I just needed a catalyst. Ron doesn't get enough love in LOTR crossovers, so he's gonna get a lot of love here :)


End file.
